


The Threefold Tie

by osprey_archer



Series: A Wedding Gift [4]
Category: The Eagle of the Ninth - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, OT3, Repression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-27 16:04:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osprey_archer/pseuds/osprey_archer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an argument with Esca and Cottia, Marcus is left alone on the farm. Can they repair their ties?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spring

It was so late in the day that the sun already slanted to the west when the incessant drip of the melting snow dragged Marcus out of bed. He stumbled to the doorway, head swimming from fever, and stood on the threshold to stare at the blotches of mud that poked through the dirty snow. By the chimney, a few mud-spattered snowdrops bloomed.

“It is spring,” Marcus told Cub. He had gotten much into the habit of talking to Cub in the long cold months. Cub leaned against Marcus’s legs, warm and comforting, and Marcus sat down hard beside him. His leg ached. He was glad enough of an excuse to sit.

“It will be time for planting soon,” said Marcus. Cub settled in the doorway beside him, head on his paws, his ears flicking as if listening. Often and often that winter, he had sat so: probably hearing rabbits beneath the snow, but Marcus thought he might be listening for Cottia or Esca to come home.

Marcus did not care for himself that they were gone. But it seemed very hard that they had left Cub all alone, when Cub could not understand: Esca who had cared for Cub when he was still a pup, and Cottia who had watched him while Esca and Marcus had been gone in Caledonia.

Sometimes in that long winter, when the moon was full and white on the snow, Cub lifted his head and howled. Then Marcus waited, skin prickling, waiting against the fear that other wolves might answer and Cub would go to them.

Was it right, to want Cub to stay with Marcus even if Cub had the chance to go back to his own people? His own wolves. His wolf-people.

No wolves ever howled back.

Now, with the snow melting, Marcus could hear the spring-high stream behind the trees, far enough away that it was only a soft roar in Marcus’s hearing. “It will be time for planting soon,” he told Cub, working his hand in the thick fur of Cub’s neck. Cub turned his head, poking Marcus gently with his nose. “I will have to…”

He would have to find tenants for the farm, most like. He could not run it without Esca and Cottia. That was not sentiment: there was simply too much work for him to do alone, especially with his leg. 

Marcus moved restlessly. His leg ached, and his head too, with the feverish headache that had been there for days. It made him sick to his stomach, that headache, and yet he knew that he must eat. 

There was more than enough food to feed him. In the past autumn, they had brought in enough food for three people and a babe. But Marcus had been alone since Cottia had left at the tail end of autumn, baby Flavia – and Marcus’s headache intensified at the name – strapped to her back. 

There was no aid in call if he let himself grow to weak. He would starve to death on his farm, alone.

“But who would care if I did?” Marcus asked Cub. Cub licked his hand, and despite himself Marcus smiled, leaning his head in the coarse fur of Cub’s ruff. “ _You_ would care,” Marcus admitted. “And my uncle, perhaps.” He thought of Uncle Aquila’s gruff kindness. “Yes, certainly my uncle. And…”

He could not think of anyone else. He closed his eyes and sighed, burrowing his face further in Cub’s fur.

If Marcus died, Esca would never hear of it, wherever he had gone.

But Cottia would hear, eventually, and Marcus liked to think she would be a little sorry. She would flare out, his fox-fire bride; she would shout at the messenger who brought such ill tidings. Surely she would be sorry for leaving him them then. 

The thought warmed him enough that he sat up. “Should we make dinner, Cub?” he asked, and Cub jumped to his feet, tail wagging. “More barley bannock?” Marcus said, as if they ate anything else: Marcus was not much of a cook. 

Marcus moved toward the hearth at the center of the roundhouse. But Cub did not follow him. Indeed, Cub was not even looking at Marcus, but stood in the doorway, staring out over the snow: tense, waiting. 

And then he bolted.

“Cub!” Marcus cried, and despite his headache and his aching leg, he lurched after Cub into the muddy snow. “Cub, wait!”

A rabbit, perhaps? But Cub ran straight across the muddy field, bounding through the snow toward –

A man. A man across the field. Cub ran at him as if he meant to attack.

“Cub, _no_!” shouted Marcus. If Cub attacked a man – Marcus would have to kill him, if the man did not kill Cub first – Cub, his last friend –

Marcus skidded on a patch of ice, hidden beneath the slush, and fell full length in the mud. Something in his leg seemed to snap at the fall, and when he got up again he crumpled to the ground. 

Ahead, Cub began to bark.

Marcus dragged himself back to his feet. His bad leg held this time, barely, and Marcus lurched forward, all but dragging his leg behind him. “Cub,” he tried to shout, but his voice did not carry. Cub – if only he could reach Cub in time –

The pain seemed to draw Marcus into himself. It was long moments before he saw that Cub was not attacking the stranger, a tribesman with long hair and a drooping mustache. Instead Cub danced around the man, rubbing against his rough braccae and then leaping back a few paces, wagging his tail with his tongue hanging out.

“Cub,” said Marcus, a little helplessly, and Cub let out a bark. “I’m sorry,” he said, lifting his head to look at the stranger: and then stopped, wavering on his throbbing leg. His fever must be fogging his thoughts – it _could not be_ – 

“Marcus, Marcus, it is all right,” said the tribesman; and though his Latin had more of an accent to it than when Marcus had heard it last, Marcus knew the voice.

“Esca?” Marcus said. His leg gave way, and he fell in the melting snow.


	2. Memories

All the long lonely winter Marcus had turned his memories over and over in his mind, until they were worn away with much handling. It had begun almost a year ago, soon after Cottia gave birth to their first child. She had gone to Aunt Valaria’s for the birth, and Marcus and Esca had gone to fetch her and her little girl-child back to the farm. 

In the abstract, Marcus might have preferred a boy for his first child; but faced with a real baby, he was smitten from the first with his little girl. “Little Flavia,” Marcus said, stroking his finger across the back of the babe’s impossibly tiny hand. 

“Guinhumara,” Cottia said. 

Marcus, absorbed in the perfection of his firstborn, barely heard and did not answer. Cottia said more loudly, “We should call her Guinhumara.” 

Marcus did not understand at first. He thought that she simply did not understand Roman names, that perhaps Aunt Valaria had never explained to her - or, more likely, that Cottia had not listened when she did. 

“Roman girls are given the feminine form of their father’s nomen,” he explained. “So as I am Marcus Flavius Aquila, she will be Flavia Aquila.” 

“She is not a Roman girl,” Cottia replied. 

And to that she clung stubbornly. He had thought she would realize it was impossible - more fool him! Cottia, so stubborn that she clung to that name for all the years that Aunt Valaria called her Camilla. He had thought she would back down and realize that the baby must be Flavia, as generations of girls had been before.

But no. Guinhumara she had picked, and Guinhumara she insisted upon, until even happy occasions like little Flavia’s first tooth became arguments. Guinhumara, Guinhumara, Guinhumara. 

It was so close to the name of Cradoc's wife, Guenhumara. Marcus had not thought of her much after he had moved to Calleva, but every time Cottia called the child by that name, it was like a pin pricking Marcus’s memory, reminding him, reminding him, that no good could have come to her from the rebellion Marcus had put down. 

He could not say, to Cottia and especially to Esca, _The name pains me; for that was the name of the wife of a friend that I killed at Isca Dumnoniorum. We killed the warriors, razed the village and sowed the fields with salt. I do not know what happened to her._ How could he ask them to sympathize, when he had only done what other Roman soldiers had done to the Iceni and the Brigantes? 

They knew he had been a Roman soldier, of course, and knew that his leg had been injured in fighting the Dumnonii. But Cottia, at least, sometimes seemed to know it without thinking what it meant: she knew he had been a soldier of Rome, but did not quite connect that with the sufferings Roman soldiers had brought on the Iceni. 

Thinking of those suffering - thinking of Guenhumara, Cradoc’s wife - he felt guilty. He had never felt guilty about being a Roman soldier before, and he teetered between guilt and anger. Sometimes he thought that perhaps - perhaps when Rome had taken so much, perhaps on this one small thing he should back down. 

One small thing! But a name was not a little thing. Cottia would not have gone to war to remain Cottia, if a name was just a little thing. To agree to call the girl Guinhumara seemed to accuse Rome of wrongdoing. 

And then the anger came, the exasperation at her stubbornness, and the thought that he should be firmer: he should assert his authority as paterfamilias. Ha! Assert authority on Cottia? Her Aunt Valaria had tried for years and achieved nothing but Cottia’s disdain. Of course she had not been as firm as she could have; she had not beaten Cottia -

And, perhaps he was not fit to be a paterfamilias, but Marcus could not bring himself to beat her either. What worth was obedience that was founded on fear? And, Mithras, she cooked their food. He would not like to bet she did not know poison mushrooms. 

But it gnawed at him that he did not run his household well. 

He did not believe that she would poison him. The thought of poison mushrooms was only an uneasy jest. No; Cottia would never be so underhand. Far more likely she would stab him face to face, like Agamemnon, murdered by his wife and her lover when he returned from Troy. 

Not that Cottia had a lover. At least, Marcus did not think she had a lover. He did not really believe she had a lover. 

And yet. Esca sided with her. And if she did have a lover, who would it be but Esca? He was handsome, more handsome than Marcus. The summer sun shot threads of gold through his brown hair, and the farm work broadened his shoulders and strengthened his hands. To Marcus’s eyes he seemed as beautiful as a Greek statue. But not cold and untouchable as statues are: no, it was a warmer sort of beauty. There was something in the brown of his skin and the light of his eyes that asked to be touched. 

And he sided with Cottia about the babe’s name. 

“Could you not call the girl Guinhumara on the farm, and save Flavia for when she goes to Calleva when she is older - if she goes to Calleva?” Esca asked. 

“No!” said Marcus. 

“Why not? Aside from stubbornness.” 

“Stubborn - _I_ am being stubborn?” Marcus demanded, his voice rising. Esca’s betrayal burned him. “This is the way Roman babies are named, it is the way they have _always_ been named. She is the one who wants to change things for no reason.”

“She has reasons,” Esca said. “You have always known that Cottia has little love for Rome. Is it so strange to you that she should not want to call the child of her body a name that will always remind her of Rome?” 

“My name is Roman,” Marcus said. “ _I_ am Roman.” 

“Yes,” said Esca. He did not say anything else, though it seemed to Marcus that Esca had more to say: that some sadness held him back, as if he knew exactly why Cottia could not love a Roman. 

The old consciousness of fault came upon Marcus, and on its heels a fierce wave of spiteful anger. “It will be better for the girl to have a Roman name,” he told Esca. “Because the old days of the Iceni _are_ gone, even if Cottia does not like that. Rome rules now. That is how things are!” 

“Yes,” Esca replied, and said no more.

Marcus and Esca did not discuss it again. 

It was an uneasy summer, and an uneasy autumn, as if they lived their lives on the lid of a simmering pot that hovered on the edge of boiling over. 

It boiled over, finally, near the end of the harvest. Flavia had been fretful for days, and they had all worried about illness: but in the morning Cottia saw that the babe had cut her first tooth. “A tooth!” she cried, bouncing Flavia on her lap, so that Flavia waved her little hands in the air and gurgled, showing the thin sliver of white in her mouth. 

“I’ll carve her a teething ring,” said Marcus, swinging Flavia out of Cottia’s arms and up in the air. “And not just a ring, but toys: I’ll carve her a doll, I think. Won’t you like that, Flavia love?” 

“Guinhumara,” Cottia said. 

And the laughter and noise had died at once. Marcus lowered Flavia to the ground. In the silence, Flavia began to cry. Marcus stomped out of the room. 

He felt like a fool almost at once, and stayed in the woods only long enough to gather an armload of wood, so they could at least pretend he had gone out for that reason and not in a fit of temper. 

He came to to edge of the wood - still quite close to the house and the garden; they had cleared only as much land as they needed and no more. 

Cottia stood in the garden, not far at all from Marcus, but not looking toward him: for she was looking at Esca, who stood on the other side of the rough garden fence, and they looked at each other so intently that it was as if there was nothing in the world but them. 

“Shieldbrother,” Cottia said to Esca, her hand tight on the top of the fence. Esca put his hand over hers, and drew it away at once. It was only a brief touch, but they continued to smile at each other, their faces beautiful with sunlight, and their gazes like a cord between them. 

Marcus’s stomach twisted back on itself till he thought he would be sick. Cottia had not smiled at Marcus with that lovely openness since Flavia was born. And Esca - had Esca ever smiled at Marcus like that, so entirely unguarded? 

Never. Never, never. 

Marcus dropped the wood. They looked up at him. Cottia was calm, and that calmed Marcus somewhat. He knew she could never look so calm if she were conscious of any wrongdoing, for Cottia’s face reflected her heart more clearly than any mirror. But Esca - 

Esca looked guilty. 

“Esca, I need to talk to you,” Marcus said, and he was surprised by the calm in his own voice. It fooled Cottia, at least, who turned back to her gardening. 

But Esca was not fooled. He raised his head as he walked over to Marcus and walked with the confidence of the chieftain’s son: the straight shoulders, the rolling walk. Marcus felt suddenly conscious of the hitch in his steps, small though it was, and the consciousness grew on him as they walked away from Cottia until it seemed to beat inside his skull. 

It was Esca, finally, who broke the silence. “You know Cottia will always be faithful to you,” said Esca. “Loyalty is one of her greatest virtues: her Aunt Valaria offered her all the fruits of Rome, and Cottia clung to her love of the Iceni.” 

“I’ve noticed,” said Marcus shortly. They walked on, and he added, voice biting with sarcasm, “So? Do you think you are as tempting as all the fruits of Rome?” 

Esca’s jaw clenched. “I am not such a fool,” he said. 

“A fool!” exploded Marcus. Did Esca not realize how tempting he was? 

They walked in silence a little more, and then Marcus burst out, “Why do you stand by her, why do you encourage her in this _Guinhumara_ foolishness? If you would stand by me she would give up on it.” 

“Do you think so?” Esca asked, his voice quiet and calm. “She clung to the name _Cottia_ for years when she had no one to stand by her.” 

Again Marcus fell silent. Esca was right, and it lashed Marcus to more fury. “So - so, so, maybe she would not give it up,” he said. “But at least if you did not encourage her, maybe she would not insist! So she would call the babe Guinhumara in secret, like she called herself Cottia in secret - so what?” 

“Do you want to be a second Aunt Valaria to her?” Esca asked. 

It stung. Marcus cried, “Esca! That is not what I asked! I asked, why do you encourage her, why do you undermine me; we went to Caledonia together, we saved each others’ lives. You are supposed to be on _my_ side!” 

“And I am,” Esca insisted. “In everything except for this, because in this you are wrong, Marcus.” 

“It is not your place to decide that,” Marcus snapped back. “Cottia is my wife and Flavia is my child and you - you are supposed to be _my_ \- ”

He stopped, fumbling. _My freedman? My friend?_ What was Esca supposed to be? “You are supposed to be loyal to _me_ ,” said Marcus. “And if you can’t - then this is my farm, under my authority as paterfamilias, and if you cannot obey that authority than you had better go.” 

A heavy silence followed. Marcus was aghast: he had not meant to tell Esca to go. But having said it, he could not back down. 

Esca did not look at Marcus, but away in the distance. “Yes,” said Esca. “I should go. There are other clans of the Brigantes, I have heard, that survive. I will look for them. It would be best.” 

And before the next sunrise, in the night as Marcus and Cottia slept, Esca left.

And soon after, Cottia left too. Uncle Aquila came to see the farm, and when he went back to Calleva, Cottia and the babe went under his protection to stay with Aunt Valaria for the winter. 

“Your Aunt Valaria won’t call the babe Guinhumara either,” Marcus told her spitefully.

“She won’t,” Cottia agreed. She sat straight on her horse with her hair like a flame and the babe strapped to her chest. “But then, _she_ never pretended that she was anything but an enemy.”


	3. Night

Marcus woke in the night, cold to the bone. Cub usually slept at his side; but he was gone. “Cub?” he said groggily. And then the memory of Esca’s arrival came back to him, and he said, more loudly, “Esca?” 

There was no answer. “Esca?” Marcus said again, and was ashamed of his high voice, like a child calling for his mother. His teeth began to chatter. 

And there was still no answer. Marcus sat up, drawing his blankets around him and trying to rub warmth back into his hands. Had he dreamed Esca’s return? 

Marcus dreamed of Cottia and Esca often. But the evening had not seemed a dream. It had been surpassingly odd, but not with the disorderly oddness of dreams. 

Marcus had hurt his leg in running after Cub, and Esca had helped Marcus back to the house, as he had helped Marcus walk long ago. The sweetness of the memory made Marcus yet more ashamed that he had been so angry with Esca, and he was almost glad of the pain. It seemed a fitting punishment. 

And it meant they could not speak to each other, and that was good, because Marcus did not know what to say. 

But even when they had reached the house, the silence grew between them: and in silence Esca brought in wood, and built up the fire, and made barley bannock for them to eat, while Cub frolicked between them. 

At last when the bannock was cooking Esca looked at Marcus, and Marcus felt he must speak. “Did you pass a good winter?” he asked foolishly. 

“Yes,” said Esca. 

“You found the Brigantes?” Marcus pressed, and suddenly it was the most important thing in the world to him. He did not want Esca to have come back just because he had passed a winter begging, and had no other choice. 

“I did find them,” said Esca. He poked at the fire, nursing the embers into leaping flames. Marcus’s fingers ached with the warmth. He never built the fire so large: it was too difficult for him to fetch wood. 

“It was a good winter,” Esca said. “They found in me a skilled hunter.” 

And then - how had he not seen it before? - Marcus noticed Esca’s fine warm cloak, trimmed with fur. Poverty had not forced him to come back, then. Marcus carded his fingers through Cub’s fur, and tried to nerve himself to ask why Esca had come back; but he could not say the words. 

Esca asked, “Where is Cottia?” 

_Cottia_. Esca had come back for Cottia, then. Marcus tasted bitterness at the back of his throat. “She went back to her aunt’s house,” he said. He stabbed a stick into the fire. “With - Flavia.” He glanced at Esca, daring him to say _Guinhumara_ , but Esca did not speak. “Soon after you…”

He could not finish the sentence. Esca nodded, and they did not speak again, but ate their burned bannock in silence and settled down to sleep on opposite sides of the fire. 

And now Marcus was awake again, because Cub was gone and Esca was gone and the banked fire was too faint even to illuminate the tiny house. Marcus wrapped his arms around himself, trying to control his shivers. Where was Esca? Had he left already, like a thief in the night? 

A thief in the night. _Where was Cub?_

“Cub!” bellowed Marcus, starting to his feet. His leg seized up, and he fell back with a yell.

And then the door opened, and Cub bounded warm and happy to Marcus. “Cub,” Marcus said, and put his arms around his wolf and pressed his face in Cub’s fur. “Cub, Cub…”

And then, a soft voice in the darkness: “Marcus?” Esca asked. 

“Esca!” Marcus said. Esca stood in the doorway, a shadow shape in the moonlight. In silhouette, his drooping mustache looked like horns. _Cuckold’s horns_ , Marcus thought; but he did not feel angry, only lonely and cold, and very tired of himself. “Esca,” he said. “I thought you left again.”

“No; why would I come back, just to leave?” Esca asked, and he came into the house and closed the door behind him, so Marcus could not see even his silhouette, but only a blacker shape in the blackness. 

Somehow that made it easier to talk. “Esca,” Marcus said. “Why did you come back?”

Esca did not answer for a little while. Esca poked at the fire. After a time, he said, “It was a good hunting in the autumn. And a good winter. Good to be among the Brigantes again.’

“Well,” said Marcus. These seemed like good reasons to stay with the Brigantes, not to return, and Marcus thought: _He is only come back to put things right between us, and then he will go back to them._ And surely Marcus owed Esca that. 

Cub whined, and Marcus found that he had clenched his hands in Cub’s ruff so tightly that it must have hurt him. “I’m sorry,” Marcus murmured to Cub, and then he said more loudly, “Esca, I’m sorry. It is my fault you left, and I was very wrong to…to accuse you of anything.” 

Marcus heard Esca cross the room, heard the rich rustle of his fur-lined cloak as he knelt close at Marcus’s side. “It’s all right,” said Esca, and he rested his hand on Marcus’s shoulder. “It was not all your fault. I left because I knew that I was wrong; I should not have wanted - ” He stopped again. “I would never - even if Cottia had wanted - though of course she never would want...”

“Why not?” asked Marcus. “You are more than tempting enough.”

Esca’s hand moved up Marcus’s throat to touch his face. Marcus was suddenly conscious of his beard, unshaven all that winter, and ducked his head; but rather than take his hand away, Esca pressed it against Marcus’s forehead. 

Marcus turned his face away, so Esca could not feel the tears on his cheeks. Esca’s hand dropped back to his shoulder, then curved around Marcus’s neck, stroking up into Marcus’s tangled hair. Marcus shivered, and the shiver gathered in his belly. Esca was very near. “Esca - ” said Marcus, distressed. “Don’t.” 

Esca’s hand stilled, then drew away. “I am sorry,” he said, and there was a wryness in his voice, some little self-mockery. “I misunderstood, then; I thought you wanted me.” 

“I do!” Marcus said, and was mortified. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I swore I would not tell you.”

“To Cottia?”

“To myself.”

“But why?” 

It seemed perfectly clear to Marcus why he could not tell Esca such a thing; he did not see how Esca did not understand. “Because...because men want women, and pretty boys,” Marcus said, trying to explain. “Because it would be like saying I saw you - and I don’t see you this way - but it would be as if to say, that I saw you as less than a man; when really you are the best man I know.”

Silence again. Marcus, in the darkness, wished again that he could see Esca’s face. “It would bring shame on you,” said Marcus, trying to explain. “And you have no cause to ever feel shame.” 

“Are you so sure that I would be unmanned by your wanting?” Esca asked. “Do you feel unmanned, because I have wanted you?”

This was too much. “You don’t,” Marcus said. 

“Yes, I do.” Esca sounded annoyed. 

Marcus could not believe it. “But if you wanted me, why did you go?” 

“But that is why I had to leave,” Esca said. “Wanting only you or only Cottia, I could have borne, but to live with two people I wanted so - that seemed too hard.”

And Marcus’s thoughts, so unsettled by Esca’s speech, settled down in a rut they had trod all winter. “So you did want Cottia, then.” 

“Marcus!” Esca said. “Yes; I told you so already. But I cannot help that. I would never, we would never have betrayed you. But I cannot promise not to _want_ ; and if I am to stay, then you must make peace with that.”

“Stay,” Marcus echoed. “Do you mean to stay?”

“Yes. Is that not what I have been saying?” And suddenly Esca’s hand was on him again, not caressing as before, but pressed against his forehead. “You have a fever, Marcus. Perhaps we should speak of this in the morning.”

“No!” said Marcus. An unreasoning fear came on him then, that Esca would leave before they could resume the talk: and he said, “No, we must speak of it now, Esca. Why did you come back?” 

“It came to me in a dream that you were ill,” said Esca. “And though it was good to be among the Brigantes again, they were not of my clan; they were not my people, they were not the ones I loved. And so I came back.” 

The silence fell between them again. Cub, draped across Marcus, had fallen asleep. His rough paw scraped at Marcus’s arm as he kicked a little, chasing rabbits in his sleep. “I did not deserve that,” Marcus said, and heard to his horror the huskiness in his voice. “But I am glad you came back - I am glad I can apologize, I am glad not to be alone. I would rather be a cuckold than live another winter like the last,” Marcus said, and almost choked at the admission. He had not known until he said it that he would have sacrificed his honor rather than live alone. 

Esca’s hand found Marcus’s shoulder again. “It will not come to that,” he promised. “I will stay. I will visit the Brigantes sometimes, but - I will stay.” 

Marcus covered Esca’s hand with his own, holding tightly. He pulled Esca’s hand from his shoulder and kissed it. He had no words left to speak. 

“Come, scoot over,” Esca said. He nudged Marcus with a knee, and Marcus’s thoughts took flight like a flock of birds again, as he remembered Esca saying earlier that he wanted Marcus. 

“Esca - I don’t think - ”

Esca sighed. “It is too cold to sleep on opposite sides of the fire, Marcus. We can sleep back to back, as soldiers do for warmth.”

Marcus hesitated. 

“As we did in Caledonia, Marcus,” Esca reminded him. 

Marcus lifted his blanket. Cold air rushed in; but Esca followed, warm and alive, and draped his cloak across them both. He kissed Marcus’s cheek; and then, as he had promised, rolled on his side away from Marcus. 

Though it was Marcus who had objected, he felt bereft when Esca turned from him. But it was all so new, so strange even to have Esca back again, he was too shy to say so; so he lay down too, back pressed against Esca’s. Cub, displaced, whined and snuggled up against Marcus again. 

For the first time in months, Marcus slept warm.


	4. Cottia

It was later than usual when Marcus awoke. He could hear the snow melting outside, as if a stream passed directly by the door, and the door itself was open to let in the sun. The air was soft and warm with spring. 

Esca sat by the fire, shaping more barley bannock. “Esca,” Marcus said groggily, and Esca looked at him. 

“Marcus?” he said. His face held the start of a smile, but he did not let it grow, and in that check Marcus saw a question: Did Marcus stand by their conversation of last night? It had been night and Marcus had been feverish: he could take it back. 

Marcus would have given much to take back saying _I would rather be a cuckold than live another winter like the last_. He teetered on the edge of it, and Esca must have seen the struggle in Marcus’s face, because his smile faded; and Marcus could not do it. To disclaim that conversation would send Esca away, and Marcus did not want, could not be alone any longer. 

There was some shame in admitting it; and yet in thinking it he felt lighter than before. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Marcus said, and leaned over and kissed Esca’s cheek, a darting morning kiss of the kind he had once given Cottia in the mornings. 

Had Esca seen that? He must have, the house was so small. 

Marcus had not thought before how difficult it must be for Esca to see Marcus and Cottia’s happiness - back when they were happy. Though probably it was not easier to see two people he loved so well unhappy with each other. Two people - 

He must stop thinking about Esca and Cottia. They were far apart from each other, and could not touch, and in any case Esca had promised he _would_ not touch Cottia, even if she was here. And she was not. 

Esca was smiling at him, his cheeks flushed with more than fire heat. “I’m glad you’re here, too,” he said. 

And he had said, last night, that he wanted Marcus - that he did not think being wanted shamed him. Possibly Marcus had imagined that. But he did not think he could imagine something so unlikely on his own. 

Marcus scooted gingerly toward Esca, taking care not to jar his leg. He reached up and touched his hand to Esca’s cheek, above the drooping mustache, and stroked his thumb across Esca’s skin. 

But Esca pulled back. “There is Cottia to think of,” he said.

“Cottia!” Marcus said. He fell back on his pallet; he threw his blanket over his head. “Cottia is not here,” he protested, voice muffled by the cloth. “And she will not come back, unless I call the babe - ” He stopped so swiftly that his teeth clicked together. 

“Guinhumara.” 

Marcus’s hands clenched on the wool. “Yes, that!”

“Can you not even say the name? Is that why you do not like it, Marcus, the sounds are too complicated for your Roman mouth?” 

Marcus thrust the blanket away from his face. Esca looked down at him, half-teasing and half-wary. “Guinhumara,” Marcus snapped. “I can say it well enough. I am not so petty as all that, Esca. If it were only that I could not say the name, I would have said.” 

“I know,” said Esca. His face was suddenly serious. “But I do not understand why you are so insistent that the baby must be called Flavia, even here at the farm. Even if you must call her Flavia, could you not let Cottia call the child Guinhumara?”

Marcus plucked at the blanket, struggling for words. “And you?” he asked. “What would you call the child?” 

Esca was silent for a moment. Then: “Guinhumara,” he said steadily. 

Marcus struggled against bitterness. It would be easy - it was on the tip of his tongue to accuse Esca, again, of being in love with Cottia and meaning to cuckold Marcus. But he knew it was not true; and he knew that saying it would only drive Esca to leave again, and that Esca would not return a second time. 

His stomach clenched in on itself. He had to agree: he could not live alone anymore. But he could not bring himself to simply surrender. “I do not see that it is any of your business,” Marcus snapped. 

“Because she is _your_ wife, and this is _your_ farm, and it is your own life to destroy as you please?” Esca asked, not unkindly. 

Marcus pressed his fists into his thighs. His bad leg smarted under the pressure. “Why would you call her Guinhumara?” 

“Because,” said Esca. “It is a name my people use.” 

Marcus kicked off the covers, restless. Goosebumps rose on his legs in the chill air. He would have paced, but his leg hurt too much. Instead his stubbornness coiled in his stomach, smoldering toward a rage that burned up his throat. He swallowed it down. “I suppose,” he said, “you do not much like my name, it being Roman.” 

“I don’t mean that at all,” Esca returned. “I mean that she is half Iceni, and there is everything in the world to convince her to forget that as much as she can, and the Iceni should not be forgotten.’

Marcus clenched his hands in the pallet. The straw, much crushed after the long winter, barely crackled. “But it will be easier for her in Calleva if she is used to being called Flavia,” he said. 

“And so she will be, if you call her Flavia,” Esca replied calmly. 

“What if she doesn’t want to be called Flavia at all? What if she rejects the name, as Cottia rejected Camilla? Camilla was only a name that Aunt Valaria gave Cottia, but Flavius is _my name_.” 

And he stopped, shaken. He had not put the thing so baldly to himself before. 

“Oh, Marcus.” Esca seemed to hesitate, then placed a hand on Marcus’s arm. “Cottia is rejecting - she is not rejecting _you_. You are not Rome - and she is not even rejecting all of Rome; she would not have married you if she did. She is just...she wants her children to be Iceni, too. Think, Marcus: the girls may marry Roman magistrates, the younger boys will join the Roman army. They will have Roman names too; they will be very Roman indeed when they are grown. Can you not let Cottia have this one thing?” 

“You’re right,” said Marcus. It was hard to say the words: but once they were said, he felt suddenly so light that he might almost float. “You’re right,” he said again, and it was as if he had wanted to say so all along: it was so clear, now, that he had been stubborn, had tormented himself - no; had tormented all of them - for no reason. 

Esca had forgiven him. Would Cottia? 

A great urgency grew alongside the lightness. Marcus pushed back his blanket and stood. He could not float after all: he staggered on his leg. Esca stood quickly, but Marcus did not lean on him. “I have been wrong,” Marcus said, gathering up his cloak. His leg steadied as he walked. “I will go to Cottia in Calleva. I will tell her so.” 

***

Esca thought Marcus was too weak to go to Calleva, and perhaps he was right. No, certainly he was right: but this time, Marcus was right too. If he did not go to Cottia now, when he still remembered how horrible that lonely winter had been, perhaps he would never be able to bring himself to apologize. 

So they went to Calleva, and when they arrived at Aunt Valaria’s house, she sent Marcus to the garden. “Camilla is always there with the child,” she said. “I wish you the luck of it.” 

He did not see Cottia at first, but only her freedwoman Clio, who sat in the sun near the garden gate. Clio saw him, and her old face warmed. He was surprised to see it. Clio had taken her feelings toward him from Cottia, and after Flav - after Guinhumara’s birth, Clio had always given him the burnt bannocks. 

Perhaps Cottia had missed him. His heart began to pound. Perhaps the lonely winter had been hard on her, too. 

Of course it had. He had been a fool not to think of that before; and thinking of it, suddenly he was full of a sweet remorse. Apologizing was not just right: it would be a pleasure. Why had he not come months ago? 

Clio gestured, and following her arm Marcus saw Cottia at last, sitting on a bench half-hidden behind a flowering bush. Her fiery hair was bound up in braids around her head, and beneath them her face seemed very white and small and tired - perhaps more so, because she was trying to smile down at the baby, who stood precariously, clinging to the edge of the bench with her fat little hands. Cottia brushed a hand over the baby’s downy red hair. 

Marcus opened the garden gate. Cottia turned at the noise, then sat very still, staring at Marcus, her chin lifted in defiance. 

The babe, as if Cottia’s gaze had been keeping on her feet, plopped to the ground. She too sat very still, looking around as if surprised to find herself suddenly on the ground, then tugged on a flower with a chubby fist. 

“She is growing well,” Marcus said, his voice husky. Esca had been right: Marcus was too ill for the road, and his throat burned with fire. He cleared his throat, and it felt as if daggers pierced his neck. “She is growing well,” he repeated. “Our Guinhumara.” 

“Oh!” cried Cottia. She rose, she stood still for a moment; then she ran across the garden to him, hugging him so hard that his dragging leg almost buckled beneath him. “Oh, Marcus!” she cried, and burst into tears. She thrust herself away from him and smiled, her beam radiant, though tears still coursed down her face. “Guinhumara is - oh, Marcus!” She hugged him again. 

Marcus was baffled, though he put his arms around her too. “Why are you crying?” he asked. 

“I never thought you would change your mind,” she said, squeezing him tightly, face pressed in his shoulder. “You are so Roman and so stubborn.”

“I! _I_ am stubborn!” Marcus protested. 

“We are both stubborn,” Cottia said, and kissed his neck. Her soft hair, coming out of its complicated braids, brushed against his jaw. “That is why we must never argue, because otherwise we may never make up again, and I love you too much for that.”

Marcus would have been happy to stand there holding each other forever, or at least for a week; and they did stand there a long time, Cottia light in Marcus’s arms, her arms tight about him, and her breath warm on his neck. 

But Marcus’s leg was not made for long standing. It twinged, and he staggered, and remembered that there were things that he must say to Cottia, which might make her angry but must be said.

It was a struggle to force words through his mouth, but he said, “When she comes to Calleva, Guinhumara will have to be called Flavia - in Calleva.”

Cottia flared briefly, drawing away from him. On his weakened leg Marcus almost fell. But she caught him, and her face softened, and he saw that tiredness again. “She will be in Aunt Valaria’s care when she comes to Calleva,” said Cottia. “And Aunt Valaria will make sure she is called by her proper Roman name.” She shifted, moving to brace Marcus against her shoulder. “Marcus, you have a fever. Let us get you - Clio! Come look after Guina! - ” The freedwoman hurried forward. “Marcus, let us get you inside - ”

But as they came in sight of the gate, Cottia suddenly stopped very still. Marcus, who had his eyes on his feet, did not at once understand; but then Cottia cried, “Esca!” 

If she had not been holding Marcus up, Marcus thought Cottia might have run to Esca. Instead a shining smile lit her face, and she turned to Marcus. “Marcus! Esca is back?” 

_She said she loves me_ , he reminded himself. “Yes,” he said gruffly. 

Cottia squeezed her arm around him again. “You will be so much happier now,” she said. “You were an awful ass when Esca was gone - Esca, he was extremely irritating after you left!” Cottia shouted, and Esca laughed and came across to them, slipping his shoulder under Marcus’s other arm. 

“I am sorry to hear it,” Esca said, teasing her. 

“Are you? Perhaps you should be happy to hear he missed you so,” she said. 

“I missed you both,” said Marcus. He stroked his thumb across a curl of hair that had fallen loose over the nape of Cottia’s neck. “You have no idea how I missed you both.” 

Leaning on Cottia and Esca, Marcus walked into the house.


	5. The Threefold Tie

“We shall find you a wife.” 

Marcus opened his eyes. He lay on his old bed in his uncle’s house, though he could not say how he knew it was so, for the room was all shadows between the flickering light of a dying oil lamp. Perhaps someone had told him where he was, in the other times he had been awake.

“I do not need a wife, Cottia.”

Marcus remembered waking up before, although his memories were as hazy and disorderly as dreams. He was relieved to find that they had not been dreams: that he really was in his uncle’s house, and Cottia and Esca really were here, sitting by his bedside, and talking. He ought to roll over and greet them; but he ached all over, as if he had fallen down a hillside, and his throat throbbed. 

“It is not fair that you should be always alone…”

They had been talking, he thought, for a long while. It had not disturbed him. Rather, whenever he woke up, their soft voices had reassured him: Cottia was here, Esca was here, they were beside him, and he drifted back to sleep. 

Now, though, he was awake, although still tired enough that he wished he could drift back to sleep. He closed his eyes, but he did not sink into the soft silent darkness. Their voices still floated above him, soft and clear and weary. Had they slept at all while he was ill? How long had he been ill?

“I will not be always alone…” Esca’s voice was tentative. Marcus felt the mattress depress, as if Esca had pressed his hand to it. 

“Oh, Marcus. Marcus does not count,” Cottia said. “I mean he does, but he cannot sleep in two beds at the same time, and you will get cold.”

Esca took in a breath of shock. “You know?” 

“Of course I know. I have always known,” Cottia said. Marcus, his eyes still closed, smiled at the touch of petulance in her voice. “Do you think I do not know what men do on a long hunting? I was terribly jealous.” 

“Cottia!” 

Cottia gave a quick angry laugh, quickly smothering the sound as if she remembered that Marcus was asleep. “Of course I know,” she said. 

“But there was nothing to know,” Esca said. “We were not - Marcus and I did not...do anything in Caledonia.” His voice was tentative, slow. “But now...now we might,” he said, with a carefulness, as if he were watching Cottia’s face for a reaction. “We spoke about it, Marcus and I, after I returned…” 

A pause. Cottia said nothing. Marcus could hear Esca shifting. “Perhaps I should go back to the Brigantes,” he said. 

Marcus’s eyes opened wide. In the guttering light, he could see Esca and Cottia’s shadows on the wall, heads drooping as if tired, mirroring each other as they leaned forward. 

“Not on my account,” Cottia said. “I am not jealous, now that I know Marcus loves me. I didn’t know that then: I thought he saw me as a funny child, almost a pet, like Cub. It used to make me cry. Once I broke an oil lamp; I hurled it across the room, I was so angry. It was not burning, fortunately.” Her voice seemed to brighten, and Marcus imagined her smiling. “Aunt Valaria was _furious_.” 

“Ai, Cottia.” Marcus could hear the warmth in Esca’s voice, too. “And I am sure Marcus will worry less if...so there is no need to marry me off. Na, and what could I offer a wife?” 

“Do you not think yourself is enough?”

Esca let out another loud breath, almost a laugh. “An ex-slave with a mangled ear, who lives on another man’s farm. A most desirable match.” 

“Oh don’t be a fool,” Cottia said fiercely. “So you cannot offer a wife what you would have done, if your father was still Lord of Five Hundred Spears. People marry on much less. Anyone would want you, Esca.” 

Marcus saw, then, that Esca was wrong: that Cottia _did_ want, though she would never say it. 

He should have been angry. But he was not. Perhaps it was only that fever and sleep still softened his feelings; but he was not angry, only warmed by the realization that she would not say it: that she, like Esca, would never do anything to hurt him. 

Even though he in his baseless jealousy had hurt them. Cottia too had been jealous, but _she_ had not driven anyone away from anywhere: she had swallowed her jealousy and married him anyway, and he had never even known that she knew. 

A hot shame burned through him at his own selfishness. If Cottia and Esca could swallow their jealousy, why could he not? It did not matter much, as long as Esca got no children off of Cottia. 

He rolled over then, though his body ached, and his eyes still seemed blurry as he squinted at them. The lamplight picked out glints of gold in Cottia’s red hair. “Cottia,” he said, reaching out his hand toward her.

She turned at once, and smiled. “Marcus,” she said, and took his hand. She sat on the edge of his bed. “Are you truly awake this time?”

“Yes,” he said. 

“You said that last time,” she said, and lifted his hand to kiss it. “I think his fever’s down - Esca - I think his fever’s down.”

Esca crouched by the bed at Cottia’s feet, pressing his fingers to Marcus’s wrist. “His pulse is better,” he said. 

“I am right here,” Marcus said. 

“And he’s truly awake,” Cottia said wryly. 

Marcus lifted his other hand, although his limbs seemed heavy, and clumsily wrapped it around Esca’s wrist. Esca leaned forward, his face concerned in the last of the light. “I am here,” he said. “We are both here.” 

“We’re all here,” said Marcus. “No thanks to me.” 

“Plenty of thanks to you,” said Cottia, squeezing his hand. “Even if I were as wrong as you had been, Marcus, I never would have apologized, not for all the gold in Egypt.” 

Marcus was not sure how to respond, so he said nothing. He clumsily turned Esca’s wrist palm up, then placed Cottia’s hand in Esca’s.

Cottia made to draw away. “Marcus,” she said sharply. 

Marcus pressed their hands together between his. “It’s all right,” he said. “It’s all right.” 

The lamp went out. 

In the sudden darkness, they were so silent the room might have been empty, and Marcus was glad of the warmth of their hands under his: Esca’s broad and chapped, Cottia’s slim and smooth. The winter of soft living had taken her farm calluses. “You two…”

He did not quite know how to say it. At length, Esca ventured, “Are you saying that we should wed if you die?” 

“He’s not dying,” Cottia said fiercely. “Marcus, do you hear? You are not dying. The fever broke last night. You’ll be well soon.” 

Marcus hadn’t even realized he was in danger of dying. “No,” he said. “Well, yes. If I die. Later. But I meant now - if you want - ” His throat hurt. He tried to clear it, and it cut like knives. “To be together,” he whispered hoarsely. 

Another silence, briefer this time. Cottia’s hand twitched. Marcus tried to hold it, but he was still weak; she drew away. “Is this a test?” she asked. “Is this - are you testing us? After this long winter, how dare you not trust us! If we meant to do anything, I would have run away with Esca to the Brigantes, you great big stupid Roman lummox!” 

“Cottia,” protested Esca, low-voiced. But he also had pulled his hand away. 

Marcus’s face was flaming in the dark. “I am not so base as all that,” he said. “I am not - it is not a test. But if Esca and I...it only seems fair.” 

After last winter, of course they would think he was testing them. It was the kind of unreasonable thing a Roman lummox might do...

But out of the darkness came Esca’s voice, quiet but clear. “You have never lied to me.” And his hand found Marcus’s again. “Cottia? Do you want me?”

Cottia let out a sigh. There was a little silence, and then she said, “Did I not say that anyone would?” 

And her hand, also, found theirs in the darkness. She kissed Marcus’s hand, and then Esca’s, her eyelashes brushing Marcus’s wrist as she did so. 

He tugged their hands gently. “What…” Esca asked. 

“Have you slept?” Marcus asked. “While I was ill?”

“A little,” said Cottia. 

Marcus drew their hands again. “Come in with me,” he said. 

They hesitated; and then Cottia’s arm relaxed. “Clio will know everything eventually anyway,” she said, and there was a rush of cold air as she lifted the rug to crawl in next to Marcus. “Esca? You too.” 

But Esca still sat, his wrist taut under Marcus’s hand. “Are you sure?” he asked Marcus. “You have been ill. Are you…”

“Sure,” said Marcus. He pressed his face in Cottia’s hair, breathing in the warm scent of the chamomile wash she used, and murmured through her hair, “Sure."

The ropes creaked as Esca, too, climbed into bed and pressed himself against Marcus’s back. He nuzzled his face in Marcus’s neck, his mustaches scratchy, and kissed Marcus below the ear as he looped his arm around them both. Cottia laughed softly. “That tickles,” she murmured. 

Marcus tightened his own arm around her. Esca must have felt Marcus’s shoulder tighten; for his arm tightened to, and he found Marcus’s hand against Cottia’s stomach and threaded his fingers through. “Sleep tight,” he said, his breath warm on Marcus’s ear. 

Cottia laid her hand on top of theirs again. And, crowded all three onto the bed, they slept.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to sineala and savvy for betaing this fic and providing much encouragement!


End file.
